CO 
O 


Q 
>- 


SIR  JAMES  M.  BARRIE'S 


Challenge  to 
Youth 


Being  His   Inaugural  Address  as 

Lord  Rector  of  St,  Andrews, 

Scotland's    Oldest 

University 


/  OF  THE 

f.'  UNIVERSITY 


Compliments  of  the 

BOSTON  EVENING  TRANSCRIPT 


SIR  JAMES    M.  BARRIE'S 


Challenge  to 
Youth 


Being   His    Inaugural    Address    as 

Lord  Rector  of  St.  Andrews, 

Scotland's    Oldest 

University 


Compliments   of   the 

BOSTON  EVENING  TRANSCRIPT 


C8  D-3 


SIR     JAMES     M.     BARRIE'S 

Inaugural  Address  was  deliv- 
ered on  May  3,  1922.  On  the 
same  occasion  Earl  Haig,  Field 
Marshal  of  England,  was  made 
Lord  Chancellor,  and  Ellen 
Terry,  the  actress,  was  given 
the  honorary  degree  of 
Doctor  of  Laws 


4802G 


Sir  James  Barrie  and  Miss  Ellen   Terry 


Barrie's  Challenge  lo  Youth 


ADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN— Even  in  those  two  words  I  see 
what  a  change  has  come  over  the  Scottish  Universities  since 
my  days.  There  were  no  girl  undergraduates  then.  Ladies, 
you  add  to  my  terrors  today,  but  I  congratulate  and  applaud 
you  on  winning  your  scarlet  gowns.  When  Lord  Haig  was  speaking  I 
was  remembering,  as  I  dare  say  you  all  were,  other  days,  when  it  was 
not  as  chancellor  that  we  thought  of  him,  days  when  he  used  a  phrase 
about  our  having  our  backs  to  the  wall — which  is  where  I  feel  my  back 
is  at  this  moment.  I  once  thought  of  trying  to  address  you  on  the  theme 
' ' If  there  had  been  no  war, ' '  but  a  grimmer  text  would  be  "If  there  had 
been  no  Haig."  Among  the  changes,  you  might  have  had  a  rector  at  St. 
Andrews  with  a  German  accent.  Lord  Haig  is  a  man  of  Fife.  As  you 
say,  he  might  have  done  worse.  Yet  some  of  your  queer  ways  and  words 
in  Fife  rather  amuse  us  in  Forfarshire.  The  first  favor  I  must  ask  of 
you  is  to  be  lenient  if  you  don't  hear  me.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  speak- 
ing, and  just  now  I  hear  my  own  voice  with  a  horrible  resonance,  like 
a  peal  of  bells  in  an  empty  house.  But  I  have  a  suspicion  that  the  noise 
does  not  travel,  and  that,  when  all  is  over,  my  rectorial  address  may  still 
remain  a  secret.  I  shall  do  my  utmost,  but  I  can  assure  those  of  you  who 
don't  hear  me  that  you  are  having  much  the  best  of  it  just  now. 

December  Roses 

No  one  could  be  more  conscious  of  the  honor  you  have  done  me. 
You  have  had  many  rectors  here  who  will  shine  on  after  the  likes  of 
myself  are  dead  and  rotten  and  forgotten.  They  are  the  roses  in  De- 
cember. You  remember  'that  someone  said  that  God  gave  us  memory  so 
that  we  might  have  roses  in  December.  But  I  don't  envy  the  great  ones. 
In  my  experience,  and  you  may  find  in  the  end  it  is  yours  also,  the  people 
I  have  cared  for  most  and  who  have  seemed  most  worth  caring  for — my 
December  roses^ — have  been  very  simple  folk.  But  I  wish  that  for  this 
hour  that  I  could  swell  into  someone  of  importance,  so  as  to  do  you 
credit.  I  suppose  you  had  a  softening  for  me  because  I  was  hewn  out  of 
one  of  your  own  quarries,  walked  similar  academic  groves,  and  have 


Sir  James  M.  Barrie's 


trudged  the  road  on  which  you  will  soon  set  forth.  I  would  that  I  could 
put  into  your  hands  a  staff  for  that  somewhat  bloody  march.  There  is 
much  about  myself  that  I  conceal  from  other  people,  but  to  help  you  I 
would  expose  every  cranny  of  my  mind. 

But  alas,  when  the  hour  comes  for  the  rector  to  answer  to  his  call 
he  is  unable  to  enter  into  the  undergradualte  he  used  to  be,  and  so  the 
only  door  into  you  is  closed.  We,  your  elders,  are  much  more  interested 
in  you  than  you  are  in  us.  We  are  not  really  important  to  you — I  have 
utterly  forgotten  the  address  of  the  rector  of  my  time,  and  even  who  he 
was,  but  I  recall  vividly  climbing  up  a  statue  to  tie  his  colors  round  its 
neck  and  being  hurled  therefrom  with  contumely.  We  remember  the 
important  things.  I  cannot  provide  you  with  that  staff  for  your 
journey.  But  perhaps  I  can  tell  you  a  little  about  it,  how  to  use  it  and 
lose  it  and  find  it  again  and  cling  to  it  more  than  ever.  You  shall  cut  it 
— so  it  is  ordained — everyone  of  you  for  himself,  and  its  name  is 
Courage.  You  must  excuse  me  if  I  talk  a  good  deal  about  courage  to 
you  today.  There  is  nothing  else  much  worth  speaking  about  to  under- 
graduates or  graduates  or  white-haired  men  and  women.  It  is  the 
lovely  virtue — the  rib  of  Himself  that  God  sent  down  to  His  children. 

They  Were  the  Big   Guns 

My  special  difficulty  is  that  though  you  have  had  literary  rectors 
here  before,  they  were  the  big  guns,  the  historians,  the  philosophers ; 
you  have  had  none,  I  think,  who  followed  my  more  humble  branch, 
which  may  be  described  as  playing  hide-and-seek  with  angels.  My  pup- 
pets seem  more  real  to  me  than  myself.  I  could  get  on  much  more 
swingingly  if  I  made  one  of  them  deliver  this  address.  It  is  McConnachie 
who  has  brought  me  to  this  pass.  McConnachie,  I  should  explain,  is  the 
name  I  give  to  the  unruly  half  of  myself — the  writing  half.  We  are  com- 
plement and  supplement.  I  am  the  half  that  is  dour  and  practical  and 
canny,  he  is  the  fanciful  half;  my  desire  is  to  be  the  family  solicitor, 
standing  firm  on  my  hearthrug  among  the  harsh  realities  of  the  office 
furniture,  while  he  prefers  to  fly  around  on  one  wing.  I  shouldn't  mind 
him.  doing  that,  but  he  drags  me  with  him.  I  have  sworn  that  McConna- 
chie shall  not  interfere  with  this  address  today.  But  there  is  no  telling. 
J  might  have  done  things  worth  while  if  it  had  not  been  for  McCon- 
nachie. My  first  piece  of  advice  to  you  at  any  ra'te  shall  be  sound.  Don't 
copy  me.    A  good  subject  for  a  rectorial  address  would  be  the  mess  the 

Page   8 


Challenge  to  Youth 


rector  himself  has  made  of  life.  I  merely  east  this  forth  as  a  suggestion, 
and  leave  the  working  of  it  out  to  my  successor.  I  don't  'think  it  has 
been  used  yet. 

Youth's  Claim 

My  own  theme  is  Courage,  as  you  should  use  it  in  the  great  fight 
"ihat  seems  to  me  to  be  coming  between  Youth  and  their  Betters ;  by 
Youth  meaning  of  course  you,  and  by  your  Betters  us.  I  want  you  to 
take  up  this  position — that  Youth  have  for  too  long  left  exclusively  in 
our  hands  the  decisions  in  national  matters  that  are  more  vital  to  them 
than  to  us.  Things  about  the  next  war,  for  instance,  and  why  the  last 
one  ever  had  a  beginning.  That  the  time  has  arrived  for  Youth  to  de- 
mand a  partnership.  That  to  gain  courage  is  what  you  come  to  St. 
Andrews  for.  With  some  alarms  and  excursions  into  college  life.  That 
is  what  I  propose,  but  of  course  the  issue  lies  with  McConnachie. 

Your  Betters  had  no  share  in  the  immediate  cause  of  the  war — we 
know  what  nation  has  that  blot  to  wipe  out ;  but  for  fifty  years  or  so 
we  heeded  not  the  rumblings  of  the  distant  drum — I  don't  mean  by  lack 
of  military  preparations — and  when  war  did  come,  we  told  Youth,  who 
had  to  get  us  out  of  it,  tall  tales  of  what  it  really  is  and  the  clover  beds 
it  would  lead  to.  We  were  not  meaning  to  deceive,  most  of  us  were  as 
honorable  and  as  ignorant  as  the  Youth  themselves ;  but  that  does  not 
acquit  us  of  stupidity  and  jealousy,  the  two  black  spots  in  human  nature 
which,  more  than  love  of  money,  are  at  the  root  of  all  evil.  If  you  pre- 
fer to  leave  things  as  they  are  we  shall  probably  fail  you  again.  Don't 
be  too  sure  that  we  have  learned  our  lesson  and  are  not  at  this  very 
moment  doddering  down  some  brimstone  path. 

I  am  far  from  implying  that  even  worse  things  than  war  may  not 
come  to  a  State.  There  are  circumstances  in  which  nothing  can  so  well 
become  a  land,  as  I  think  this  land  proved  when  the  late  war  did  break 
out,  and  there  was  but  one  thing  to  do.  There  is  a  form  of  anaemia  that 
is  more  rotting  than  even  an  unjust  war.  The  end  will  indeed  have  come 
to  our  courage,  and  to  us,  when  we  are  afraid  in  dire  mischances  to  refer 
the  final  appeal  to  the  arbitrament  of  arms.  I  suppose  all  the  lusty  of 
our  race,  alive  and  dead,  join  hands  on  that. 

Fighters'  Rights 

But  if  you  must  be  in  the  struggle,  the  more  reason  you  should 
know  why,  before  it  begins,  and  have  a  say  in  the  decision  whether  it  is 


Page  9 


Sir   James  M.   Barrie's 


to  begin.  The  youth  who  went  to  the  war  had  no  such  knowledge,  no 
such  say ;  I  am  sure  the  survivors,  of  whom  there  may  be  some  here  today, 
want  you  to  be  wiser  than  they  were,  and  are  certainly  determined  to 
be  wiser  next  time  themselves.  Perhaps  the  seemly  thing  would  be  for 
us,  their  Betters,  to  elect  one  of  them  to  be  our  rector.  He  ought  now 
to  know  a  few  things  about  war  that  are  worth  our  hearing.  If  his 
theme  were  the  rectors'  favorite,  Diligence,  I  should  be  afraid  of  his 
advising  us  to  be  diligent  in  sitting  still  and  doing  no  more  harm. 

Of  course  he  would  put  it  more  suavely  than  that — though  it  is  not, 
I  think,  by  gentleness  that  you  will  get  your  rights ;  we  are  dogged  ones 
at  sticking  to  what  we  have  got,  and  so  will  you  be  at  our  age.  But  don't 
call  us  ugly  names ;  we  may  be  stubborn  and  we  may  be  blunderers,  but 
we  love  you  more  than  aught  else  in  the  world.  I  urge  you  not  to  use 
ugly  names  about  anyone.  In  the  war  it  was  not  the  lighting  men  who 
were  distinguished  for  abuse ;  as  has  been  well  said,  ' '  Hell  hath  no  fury 
like  a  non-combatant."  Never  ascribe  to  an  opponent  motives  meaner 
than  your  own.  There  may  be  students  here  today  who  have  decided  this 
session  to  go  in  for  immortality,  but  would  like  to  know  of  an  easy  way 
of  accomplishing  it.  That  is  a  way — but  not  so  easy  as  you  think.  Go 
through  life  without  ever  ascribing  to  your  opponents  motives  meaner 
than  your  own.  Nothing  so  lov/ers  the  moral  currency.  Give  it  up,  and 
be  great. 

A  Sure  Way  to  Fame 

Another  sure  way  to  fame  is  to  know  what  you  mean.  It  is  a 
solemn  thought  that  almost  no  one — if  he  is  truly  eminent — knows  what 
he  means.  Look  at  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  the  politicians.  We  don 't 
discuss  what  they  say,  but  what  they  may  have  meant  when  they  said  it. 
In  1922  we  are  all  wondering,  and  so  are  they,  what  they  meant  in  1914 
and  afterwards.  They  are  publishing  books  trying  to  find  out,  the  men  of 
action  as  well  as  the  men  of  words.  There  are  exceptions.  It  is  not  that 
they  are  ' '  sugared  mouths  with  minds  therefrae ' ' ;  many  of  them  are  the 
best  men  we  have  got.  The  explanation  seems  just  to  be  that  it  is  so 
difficult  to  know  what  you  mean,  especially  when  you  have  become  a 
swell.  Those  doubts  breed  suspicions,  a  dangerous  air.  Without  sus- 
picion there  might  have  been  no  war.  When  you  are  called  to  Downing 
street  to  discuss  what  a^ou  want  of  your  Betters  with  the  prime  minister 

Page   10 


Challenge  to  Youth 


he  won't  be  suspicious — not  as  far  as  you  can  see;  but  remember  the 
atmosphere  of  generations  you  are  in,  and  when  he  passes  you  the-4oast____ 
rack  say  to  yourselves :  ' '  Now,  I  wonder  what  he  meant  by  that  ? ' ' 

Distrust  of  Age 

Even  without  striking  out  in  the  way  I  suggest,  you  are  already 
disturbing  your  Betters  considerably.  I  sometimes  talk  this  over  with 
McConnachie,  with  whom,  as  you  may  guess,  circumstances  compel  me 
to  pass  a  good  deal  of  my  time.  In  our  talks  we  agree  that  we,  your 
Betters,  constantly  find  you  forgetting  that  we  are  your  Betters.  Your 
answer  is  that  the  war  and  other  happenings  have  shown  you  that  age 
is  not  necessarily  another  name  for  sapience — -that  our  avoidance  of 
frankness  in  life  and  in  the  arts  is  often  but  a  cowardly  w^ay  of  shirking 
unpalatable  truths ;  and  that  you  have  taken  us  off  our  pedestals  because 
we  look  more  natural  on  the  ground.  "If  Youth  but  only  knew,"  we 
used  to  teach  you  to  sing;  but  now,  just  because  Youth  has  been  to  the 
war,  it  wants  to  change  the  next  line  into  "If  Age  had  only  to  do." 

This  passive  attitude  of  distrust,  however,  will  not  help  you  or  our 
country  much,  unless  it  stirs  you  into  getting  to  know  how  world-shaking 
situations  arise,  how  they  may  be  checked,  and  in  what  way  to  obtain 
the  fighting  partner's  share  in  the  decisions.  Doubt  all  your  Betters 
who  would  deny  you  that  right.  Begin  by  doubting  all  in  high  places — 
except,  of  course,  your  professors.  But  doubt  all  other  professors.  If 
it  necessitates  your  pushing  us  out  of  our  places,  still  push ;  3'ou  will  find 
it  needs  some  shoving.  But  the  things  courage  can  do !  The  things  that 
even  incompetency  can  do  if  it  works  with  singleness  of  purpose.  Your 
Betters  have  done  a  big  thing;  we  have  taken  spring  out  of  the  year. 
And  having  done  that  our  leading  people  are  amazed  to  find  that  the 
other  seasons  are  not  conducting  themselves  as  usual.  The  spring  of 
the  year  lies  buried  in  the  fields  of  France  and  elsewhere.  By  the  time 
the  next  eruption  comes  it  may  be  you  who  are  responsible  for  it,  and 
your  sons  who  are  in  the  lava.  All  perhaps  because  this  year  you  let 
things  slide. 

Back  Into  the  Old  Grooves 

We  are  a  nice  and  kindly  people,  but  it  is  already  evident  that  we 
are  struggling  back  into  the  old  grooves.  We  are  too  old  for  any  others ; 
that  is  the  fundamental  difference  between  us  and  you.     We  have  no 

Page   11 


Sir   James  M.   Barriers 


intention  of  giving  you  your  share.  Look  around  and  see  how  much 
share  Youth  lias  now  that  the  war  is  over.  You  got  a  handsome  share 
while  it  lasted. 

I  expect  we  shall  beat  you ;  unless  your  fortitude  be  doubly  girded 
by  a  desire  to  send  a  message  of  cheer  to  your  brothers  who  fell — the 
only  message,  I  believe,  for  which  they  crave ;  they  are  not  worrying 
about  their  Aunt  Jane.  They  want  to  know  if  you  have  learned  from 
what  befell  them;  if  you  have,  they  will  be  braced  in  the  feeling  that 
they  did  not  die  in  vain.  Some  of  them  think  they  did.  They  won't 
take  our  word  for  it  that  they  didn't.  You  are  their  living  image; 
they  know  yon  could  not  lie  to  them,  but  they  distrust  our  flattery  and 
our  cunning  faces.  To  us  they  have  passed  away;  but  are  you  who 
stepped  into  their  heritage  only  yesterday,  whose  books  are  scarcely 
cold  to  their  hands,  you  who  still  hear  their  cries  being  blown  across 
the  link — -are  you  already  relegating  them  to  the  shades?  The  gaps 
they  have  left  in  this  university  are  among  the  most  honorable  of  her 
wounds.  But  we  are  not  here  to  acclaim  them.  Where  they  are  now, 
hero  is,  I  think,  a  very  little  word.     They  call  to  you  to  find  out  in 

'  time  the  truth  about  this  great  game,  which  your  elders  play  for  stakes 

\         and  Youth  for  its  life. 


\ 


An   Unfinished  Play 

I  don't  know  whether  you  are  grown  a  little  tired  of  that  word 
hero,  but  I  am  sure  the  heroes  are.  That  is  the  subject  of  one  of  our 
unfinished  plays.  McConnachie  is  the  one  who  writes  the  plays.  If 
any  one  of  you  here  proposes  to  be  a  playwright  you  can  take  this 
for  your  own  and  finish  it.  The  scene  is  a  school,  schoolmasters 
present ;  but  if  you  like  you  could  make  it  a  university,  professors 
present.  Glasburgh  or  Abergow.  They  are  discussing  an  illuminated 
scroll  about  a  student  fallen  in  the  war,  which  they  have  kindly  pre- 
sented to  his  parents,  and  unexpectedly  the  parents  enter.  They  are 
an  old  pair,  backbent,  they  have  been  stalwarts  in  their  day  but  have 
now  gone  small ;  poor,  but  not  so  poor  that  they  coidd  not  send  their 
boy  to  college.  They  are  in  black,  not  such  a  rusty  black  either,  and 
you  may  be  sure  she  is  the  one  who  knows  what  to  do  with  his  hat. 
Their  faces  are  gnarled,  I  suppose — but  I  don't  need  to  describe  that 
pair  to  Scottish  students.  They  have  come  to  thank  the  Senatus  for 
their  lovely  scroll  and  ask  them  to  tear  it  up.     At  first  they  had  been 

Page   12 


Challenge  to  Youth 


enamored  to  read  of  what  a  scholar  their  son  had  been,  how  noble  and 
adored  by  all.  But  soon  a  fog  settled  over  them,  for  this  grand  person 
was  not  the  boy  they  knew.  He  had  many  a  fault  well-known  to 
them ;  he  was  not  always  so  noble ;  as  a  scholar  he  did  no  more  than 
scrape  through.  And  he  sometimes  made  his  father  rage  and  his 
mother  grieve.  They  had  liked  to  talk  such  memories  as  those  to- 
gether and  smile  over  them,  as  if  they  were  bits  of  him  he  had  left 
lying  about  the  house.  So  thank  you  kindly,  and  would  you  please 
give  them  back  their  boy  by  tearing  up  the  scroll?  I  see  nothing  else 
for  our  dramatist  to  do.  I  think  he  should  ask  an  alumna  of  St. 
Andrews  to  play  the  old  lady.  The  loveliest  of  all  young  actresses, 
the  dearest  of  all  old  ones — it  seems  only  yesterday  that  all  the  men 
of  imagination  proposed  to  their  beloveds  in  some  such  frenzied  words 
as  these,  "As  I  can't  get  Miss  Terry,  may  I  have  you?" 

Need  League  of  Youth 

This  play  might  become  historical  as  the  opening  of  your  propa- 
ganda in  the  proposed  campaign.  How  to  make  a  practical  advance? 
The  League  of  Nations  is  a  very  fine  thing,  but  it  can't  save  you,  be- 
cause it  will  be  run  by  us.  Beware  your  Betters  bringing  presents. 
What  is  wanted  is  something  run  by  yourselves.  You  have  more  in' 
common  with  the  youth  of  other  lands  than  Youth  and  Age  can  ever 
have  with  each  other;  even  the  hostile  countries  sent  out  many  a  son 
very  like  ours,  from  the  same  sort  of  homes,  the  same  sort  of  univer- 
sities, with  the  same  sort  of  hearts,  who  had  as  little  to  do  as  our 
Youth  had  with  the  origin  of  the  great  Adventure.  Can  we  doubt 
that  many  of  these  on  both  sides  who  have  gone  over,  and  were  once 
opponents,  are  now  friends.  You  ought  to  have  a  League  of  Youth 
as  your  great  practical  beginning.  I  sound  to  myself  as  if  I  were 
advocating  a  rebellion.  Perhaps  I  may  be  arrested  on  leaving  the 
hall.  In  such  a  cause  I  should  think  that  I  had  at  last  proved  myself 
worthy  to  be  your  rector. 

You  will  have  to  work  harder  than  ever,  but  possibly  not  so  much 
£t  the  same  things — more  at  modern  languages  certainly — if  you  are  to 
discuss  that  League  of  Youth  with  the  students  of  other  nations  when 
they  come  over  to  St.  Andrews  for  the  conference.  I  am  far  from  tak- 
ing a  side  against  the  Classics.  I  should  as  soon  argue  against  your 
having  tops  to  your  heads — that  way  lie  the  best  tops.    Science,  too,  has 

Page  13 


Sir  James  M.   Barriers 


at  last  come  to  its  own  in  St.  Andrews.  It  is  the  surest  means  of  teach- 
ing you  how  to  know  what  you  mean  when  you  say.  So  you  will  have 
to  work  harder.  One  of  the  most  valiant  men  that  ever  trod  St.  Andrews, 
Dr.  Johnson,  said  that  doubtless  the  Almighty  could  have  created  a  finer 
fruit  than  the  strawberry,  but  that  doubtless  also  He  never  did.  Doubt- 
less also  He  could  have  provided  us  with  better  fun  than  hard  work,  but 
I  don't  know  what  it  is. 

The  Glory   of  Not   Knowing   a   Soul 

To  be  born  poor  is  probably  the  next  best  thing.  The  greatest  glory 
that  has  ever  come  to  me  was  to  be  swallowed  up  in  London,  not  know- 
ing a  soul,  with  no  means  of  subsistence,  and  the  fun  of  working  till  the 
stars  went  out.  To  have  known  anyone  would  have  spoilt  it.  I  didn't 
even  quite  know  the  language.  I  rang  for  my  boots  and  they  thought  I 
said  a  glass  of  water,  so  I  drank  the  water  and  worked  on.  There  was  no 
food  in  the  cupboard,  so  I  didn't  need  to  waste  time  in  eating.  The  pangs 
and  agonies  when  no  proof  came.  How  courteously  tolerant  was  I  of 
the  postman  without  a  proof  for  us ;  how  McConnachie  on  the  other  hand 
wanted  to  punch  his  head.  The  magic  days  when  our  article  appeared 
in  an  evening  paper.  The  promptitude  with  which  I  counted  the  lines 
to  see  how  much  we  should  get  for  it.  Then  McConnachie 's  superb  air 
of  dropping  it  into  the  gutter. 

But  now — on  reflection — a  dreadful  sinking  assails  me :  that  this 
was  not  really  work.  The  artistic  callings — you  remember  how  Steven- 
son showed  them  up — are  merely  doing  what  you  are  clamorous  to  be 
at;  it  isn't  real  work  unless  you  would  rather  be  doing  something  else. 
My  so-called  labors  were  just  McConnachie  running  away  with  me  again. 
Still,  I  have  sometimes  worked ;  for  instance,  I  feel  that  I  am  working  at 
this  moment.  And  the  big  guns  are  in  the  same  plight  as  the  little  ones. 
Carlyle,  the  king  of  all  rectors,  has  always  been  accepted  as  the  arch- 
apostle  of  toil,  and  has  registered  his  many  woes.  But  it  won't  do. 
Despite  sickness,  poortith,  want  and  all,  he  was  footing  it  all  his  life  at 
the  one  job  he  revelled  in.  An  extraordinarily  happy  man,  though  there 
is  no  direct  proof  that  he  thought  so. 

Work  and  Joy 

There  must  be  many  men  in  other  callings  besides  the  arts,  lauded 
as  hard  workers  who  are  merely  out  for  enjoyment.    Our  Chancellor?  If 

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Challenge  to  Youth 


OTir  Chancellor  had  always  a  passion  to  be  a  soldier,  we  must  reconsider 
him  as  a  worker.  Even  our  Principal  ?  How  about  the  light  that  burns 
in  our  Principal's  room  after  decent  people  have  gone  to  bed?  If  we 
could  climb  up  and  look  in — I  should  like  to  do  something  of  that  nature 
for  the  last  time — should  we  find  him  engaged  in  honest  toil  or  guiltily 
engrossed  in  chemicals? 

You  will  all  fall  into  one  of  those  two  callings,  the  joyous  or  the 
uncongejiial,  and  one  wishes  you  into  the  first,  though  our  sympathy, 
our  esteem,  must  go  rather  to  the  less  fortunate,  the  braver  ones  who 
"turn  their  necessity  to  glorious  gain"  after  they  have  put  away  their 
dreams.  To  the  others  will  go  the  easy  prizes  of  life — success,  which 
has  become  a  somewhat  odious  onion  now-a-days,  chiefly  because  we  so 
often  give  the  name  to  the  wrong  thing.  When  you  reach  the  evening 
of  your  days  you  will,  I  think,  realize — with,  I  hope,  becoming  cheerful- 
ness— that  we  are  all  failures,  at  least  all  the  best  of  us.  The  greatest 
Scotsman  that  ever  lived  wrote  himself  down  a  failure : 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know. 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow 

And  softer  flame. 

But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low 

And  stained  his  name. 

Perhaps  the  saddest  lines  in  poetry,  written  by  a  man  who  could  make 
things  new  for  the  gods  themselves. 

If  you  want  to  avoid  being  like  Burns  there  are  several  possible 
ways.  Thus  you  might  copy  us,  as  we  shine  forth  in  our  published 
memoirs,  practically  without  a  flaw.  No  one  so  obscure  nowadays  but 
that  he  can  have  a  book  about  him.  Happy  the  land  that  can  produce 
such  subjects  for  the  pen. 

Your   Autobiography 

But  don't  put  your  photograph  at  all  ages  into  your  autobiography. 
That  is  the  tragic  mistake.  ' '  My  Life ;  and  What  I  Have  Done  With  It. ' ' 
That  is  the  sort  of  title,  but  it  is  the  photographs  that  give  away  what 
you  have  done  with  it.  Grim  things  these  portraits;  if  you  could  read 
the  language  of  them  you  would  often  find  it  unnecessary  to  read  the 
book.  The  face  itself,  of  course,  is  still  more  tell-tale.  It  is  the  record  of 
all  one 's  past  life.  There  the  man  stands  in  the  dock,  page  by  page ;  we 
ought  to  be  able  to  see  each  chapter  of  him  melting  into  the  next,  like 

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Sir  James  M.   Barriers 


the  figures  iu  the  cinematograph.  Even  the  youngest  of  you  has  got 
through  some  chapters  already.  When  you  go  home  for  the  next  vaca- 
tion some  one  is  sure  to  say:  "John  has  changed  a  little;  I  don't  quite 
see  in  what  way,  hut  he  has  changed."  You  remember  they  said  that 
last  vacation.  Perhaps  it  means  that  you  look  more  manly,  I  hope  it 
does ;  at  any  rate,  try  to  make  that  its  meaning  next  time. 

^„  A  Chair  for  Reading  Faces 

In  youth,  j^ou  tend  to  look  rather  frequently  into  a  mirror,  not  at  all 
necessarily  from  vanity.  You  say  to  yourself,  "What  an  interesting 
face;  I  wonder  what  he  is  to  be  up  to?"  Your  Betters  don't  look  into 
the  mirror  so  often.  We  know  what  he  has  been  up  to.  As  yet  there 
is  unfortunately  no  science  of  reading  other  people's  faces.  I  think  a 
chair  for  this  should  be  founded  in  St.  Andrews. 

That  professor  will  need  to  be  a  sublime  philosopher,  and  for  obvious 
reasons  he  ought  perhaps  to  wear  spectacles  before  his  senior  class.  It 
will  be  a  gloriously  optimistic  chair,  for  he  can  tell  his  students  the 
glowing  truth  that  what  their  faces  are  to  be  like  presently  depends 
mainly  on  themselves.    Mainly,  not  altogether — 

I   am   the   master   of   my   fate, 
I   am   the  captain   of  my   soul. 

I  found  the  other  day  an  old  letter  from  Henley  that  told  me  of  the 
circumstances  in  which  he  wrote  that  poem.  "I  was  a  patient,"  he 
writes,  "in  the  old  infirmary  of  Edinburgh.  I  had  heard  vaguely  of 
Lister,  and  went  there  as  a  sort  of  forlorn  hope  on  the  chance  of  saving 
my  foot.  The  great  surgeon  received  me,  as  he  did  and  does  everybody, 
with  the  greatest  kindness ;  and  for  twenty  months  I  lay  in  one  or 
another  ward  of  the  old  place  under  his  care.  It  was  a  desperate  busi- 
ness, but  he  saved  my  foot,  and  here  I  am!"  There  he  was,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  and  what  he  was  doing  in  that  infirmary  was  singing  that 
he  was  master  of  his  fate. 

Tribute  to  Hardy 

If  you  want  an  example  of  courage  try  Henley.  Or  Stevenson.  I 
could  tell  you  some  stories  about  these  two,  but  they  would  not  be  dull 
enough  for  a  rectorial  address.  Eor  courage  again  take  Meredith,  whose 
laugh  was  "as  broad  as  a  thousand  beeves  at  pasture."     Take,  as  I 

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Challenge  to  Youth 


think,  the  greatest  figure  literature  has  still  left  to  us,  to  be  added  today 
to  the  roll  of  St.  Andrews  alumni,  though  it  must  be  in  absence.  The 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  war  will  pass,  and  all  others  now  alive  may 
fade  from  the  scene,  but  I  think  the  quiet  figure  of  Hardy  will  live  on. 

I  seem  to  be  taking  all  mj^  samples  from  the  calling  I  was  lately  pre- 
tending to  despise.  I  should  like  to  read  you  some  passages  of  a  letter 
from  a  man  of  another  calling,  which  I  think  will  hearten  you.  I  have 
the  little  filmy  sheets  here.  I  thought  you  might  like  to  see  the  actual 
letter;  it  has  been  a  long  journey,  it  has  been  to  the  South  Pole.  It  is  a 
letter  to  me  from  Captain  Scott  of  the  Antarctic,  and  was  written  in 
the  tent  you  know  of,  where  it  was  found  long  afterwards  with  his  body 
and  those  of  some  other  very  gallant  gentlemen,  his  comrades.  The 
writing  is  in  pencil,  still  quite  clear,  though  toward  the  end  some  of  the 
words  trail  away  as  into  the  great  silence  that  was  waiting  for  them.  It 
begins : 

Captain  Scott's  Letter 

' '  We  are  pegging  out  in  a  very  comfortless  spot — Hoping  this  letter 
may  be  found  and  sent  to  you,  I  write  you  a  word  of  farewell.  I  want 
you  to  think  well  of  me  and  my  end."  After  some  private  instruction 
too  intimate  to  read  he  goes  on:  "Good-bye — I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of 
the  end,  but  sad  to  miss  many  a  simple  pleasure  which  I  had  planned 
for  the  future  in  our  long  marches.  .  .  .  We  are  in  a  desperate  state, 
feet  frozen,  etc.,  no  fuel  and  a  long  way  from  food,  but  it  would  do  your 
heart  good  to  be  in  our  tent  to  hear  our  songs  and  our  cheery  conversa- 
tion. .  .  .  Later" — it  is  here  that  the  words  become  difficult — "We 
are  very  near  the  end.  .  .  .  We  did  intend  to  finish  ourselves  when 
things  proved  like  this,  but  we  have  decided  to  die  naturally  without." 

I  think  it  may  uplift  you  all  to  stand  for  a  moment  by  that  tent  and 
listen,  as  he  says,  to  their  songs  and  cheery  conversation.  When  I  think 
of  Scott,  I  remember  the  strange  Alpine  story  of  the  youth  who  fell  down 
a  glacier  and  was  lost,  and  of  how  a  scientific  companion,  one  of  several 
who  accompanied  him,  all  young,  computed  that  the  body  would  again 
appear  at  a  certain  date  and  place  many  years  afterwards.  When  that 
time  came  round  some  of  the  survivors  returned  to  the  glacier  to  see  if 

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Sir  James  M.   Barriers 


the  prediction  would  be  fulfilled — all  old  men  now;  and  the  body  reap- 
peared, as  young  as  on  the  day  he  left  them.  So  Scott  and  his  comrades 
emerge  out  of  the  white  immensities,  always  young. 

Beauty  '"''Boiling  Over" 

How  comely  a  thing  is  affliction  borne  cheerfully,  which  is  not 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  humblest  of  us.  What  is  beauty  ?  It  is 
these  hard-bitten  men  singing  courage  to  you  from  their  tent; 
it  is  the  waves  of  their  island  home  crooning  of  their  deeds  to  you 
wlio  are  to  follow  them.  Sometimes  beauty  boils  over,  and  then  spirits 
are  abroad.  Ages  may  pass  as  we  look  or  listen,  for  time  is  annihilated. 
There  is  a  very  old  Norwegian  legend  told  to  me  by  Nansen,  the 
explorer — I  like  best  to  be  in  the  company  of  explorers — the  legend  of  a 
monk  who  had  wandered  into  the  fields  and  a  lark  began  to  sing.  He 
had  never  heard  a  lark  before,  and  he  stood  there  entranced  until  the 
bird  and  its  song  had  become  part  of  the  heavens.  Then  he  went  back 
to  the  monastery,  and  found  there  a  doorkeeper  whom  he  did  not 
know  and  who  did  not  know  him.  Other  monks  came  and  they  were 
all  strangers  to  him.  He  told  them  he  was  Father  Anselm,  but  that 
was  no  help.  Finally,  they  looked  up  the  books  of  the  monastery  and 
these  revealed  that  there  had  been  a  Father  Anselm  there  a  hundred  or 
more  years  before.  Time  had  been  blotted  out  while  he  listened  to 
the  lark. 

That,  I  suppose,  was  a  case  of  beauty  boiling  over — or  a  soul  boil- 
ing over,  i^erhaps  the  same  thing.  Then  spirits  walk.  They  must 
sometimes  walk  at  St.  Andrews.  I  don't  mean  the  ghosts  of  queens  or 
prelates,  but  one  that  keeps  step,  as  soft  as  snow,  with  some  poor  stu- 
dent. He  sometimes  catches  sight  of  it.  That  is  why  his  fellows  can 
never  quite  touch  him,  their  best  beloved;  he  half  knows  something 
of  which  they  know  nothing,  the  secret  that  is  hidden  in  the  face  of 
the  "Mona  Lisa."  Life  is  so  beautiful  to  him  that  its  proportions 
are  monstrous.  Perhaps  his  childhood  may  have  been  overfull  of 
gladness.  They  don't  like  that.  If  the  Seekers  were  kind  he  is  the 
one  for  whom  the  flags  of  his  college  would  fly  one  day.  But  the 
Seeker  I  am  thinking  of  is  unfriendly,  and  so  our  student  is  "the  lad 
that  will  never  be  old."  He  often  gaily  forgets,  and  thinks  he  has 
slain  his  foe  by  daring  him,  like  him  who,  dreading  water,  was  always 

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Challenge  to  Youth 


the  first  to  leap  into  it.  One  can  see  him  serene  astride  a  Scotch  cliff, 
singing  to  the  sun  the  farewell  thanks  of  a  boy : 

Throned  on  a  cliff  serene  Man  saw  the  sun 

Hold  a  red  torch  above  the  farthest  seas, 
And   the  fierce   island  pinnacles   put  on 

In  his  defence  their  sombre  panoplies  ; 
Foremost   the   white   mists   eddied,   trailed,   and   spun. 

Like  seekers,  emulous  to  clasp  his  knees, 
Till  all  the  beauty  of  the  scene  seemed  one 

Led   by  the  secret  whispers  of   the  breeze. 
The  sun's  torch  suddenly  flashed  upon  his   face 

And  died  ;  and  he  sat  content  in  subject  night 
And  dreamed  of  an  old  dead  foe  that  had  sought  and  found  him. 

A  beast  stirred  boldly  in  its  resting-place 
And  the  cold  came ;   Man  rose  to  his  master-height, 

Shivered  and  turned  away  ;  but  the  mists  were  round  him. 

If  there  is  any  of  you  here  so  rare  that  the  Seekers  have  taken  an  ill- 
will  to  him,  like  the  boy  who  wrote  those  lines,  I  ask  you  to  be  careful. 
Henley  says  in  that  poem  we  were  speaking  of: 

"Under  the  bludgeonings  of  Chance 
My  head  is  bloody  but  unbowed." 

A  fine  mouthful,  but  perhaps  "My  head  is  bloody  and  bowed"  is  better. 

Gay  Courage 

Let  us  get  back  to  that  tent  with  its  songs  and  cheery  conversa- 
tion. Courage!  I  don't  think  it  is  to  be  got  by  your  becoming  solemn- 
sides  before  your  time.  You  must  have  been  warned  against  letting 
the  golden  hours  slip  by.  Yes,  but  some  of  them  are  only  golden 
because  we  let  them  slip.  Diligence — ambition ;  noble  words,  but  only 
if  "touched  to  fine  issues."  Prizes  may  be  dross,  learning  lumber, 
unless  they  bring  you  into  the  arena  with  increased  understanding. 
Look  to  it  that  what  you  are  doing  is  not  merely  toddling  to  a  com- 
petency. "Happy,"  it  has  been  said  by  a  distinguished  man,  "is  he 
who  can  leave  college  with  an  unreproaching  conscience  and  an  un- 
sullied heart."  I  don't  know.  He  sounds  to  me  like  a  sloppy,  watery 
sort  of  fellow.  Happy  perhaps,  but  if  there  be  red  blood  in  him  impos- 
sible. Don't  be  disheartened  by  ideals  of  perfection  which  can  only  be 
achieved  by  those  who  run  away.  Nature,  that  "thrifty  goddess," 
never  gave  you  "the  smallest  sample  of  her  excellence"  for  that. 
You  may  have  heard  from  your  Betters  that  the  pains  and  dolours  of 

> 

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Sir   James   M.   Barriers 


Youtli  arc  but  amusing  iniiiiatiires  of  what  grey-heads  go  through. 
Don't  you  believe  it.  Whatever  bludgeonings  may  be  in  store  for 
you,  I  til  ink  one  feels  more  poignantly  at  your  age  than  ever  again 
in  life. 

All  Goes,  If  Courage  Goes 
Courage  is  the  thing.  All  goes  if  courage  goes !  The  greatness  of 
a  people  is  founded  on  their  moral  principles ;  but  what  says  our  John- 
son of  courage :  ' '  Unless  a  man  has  that  virtue  he  has  no  security  for 
preserving  any  other."  Be  not  merely  courageous,  but  light-hearted, 
also  gay.  Some  people  have  odd  ideas  of  what  gaiety  is.  There  is  an 
officer  who  was  the  first  of  our  army  to  land  at  Gallipoli.  He  was 
dropped  overboard  to  light  decoys  on  the  shore,  so  as  to  deceive  the 
Turks  as  to  where  the  landing  was  to  be.  He  pushed  a  raft  containing 
those  in  front  of  him.  It  was  a  frosty  night,  and  he  was  naked  and 
painted  black.  Firing  from  the  ships  was  going  on  all  around.  It  was  a 
two  hours'  swim  in  pitch  darkness.  He  did  it,  crawled  through  the  scrub 
to  listen  to  the  talk  of  the  enemy,  who  were  so  near  that  he  could  have 
shaken  hands  with  them — lit  his  decoys  and  swam  back.  He  seems  to 
look  on  this  as  a  gay  affair.  He  is  a  V.  C.  now,  and  you  wouldn't  think 
to  look  at  him  that  he  could  ever  have  presented  such  a  disreputable  ap- 
pearance. Would  you?  (Colonel  Freyberg.)  Those  men  of  whom  I  have 
been  speaking  as  the  kind  to  "fill  the  fife"  could  all  be  light-hearted 
on  occasion. 

I  remember  Scott  by  highland  streams  trying  to  rouse  me  by  main- 
taining that  haggis  is  boiled  bagpipes.  Henley  in  dispute  as  to  whether 
say,  Turgenieff  or  Tolstoi  could  hang  the  other  on  his  watch  chain, 
sometimes  clenched  the  argument  by  castmg  his  crvitch  at  you.  Steven- 
son responded  in  the  same  gay  spirit  by  giving  that  crutch  to  John  Sil- 
ver ;  you  remember  with  what  adequate  results.  You  must  cultivate  this 
light-heartedness  if  you  are  to  hang  your  Betters  on  your  watch  chains. 
)r.  Johnson — let  us  have  him  again — does  not  seem  to  have  discovered 
in  his  travels  that  the  Scots  are  a  light-hearted  nation.  Boswell  took 
him  to  task  for  saying  that  the  death  of  Garrick  had  eclipsed  the  gaiety 
of  nations.  "Well,  sir,"  Johnson  said,  "there  may  be  occasions  when 
it  is  permissible  to,"  &c.  But  Boswell  would  not  let  go.  "I  cannot  see, 
sir,  how  it  could  in  any  case  have  eclipsed  the  gaiety  of  nations,  as  Eng- 
land was  the  only  nation  before  whom  he  had  ever  played."    Johnson 

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Challenge  to  Youth 


was  really  stymied,  but  you  would  never  have  known  it.  "Well,  sir," 
he  said,  holing  out,  "1  understand  that  Garrick  once  played  in  Scotland, 
and  if  Scotland  has  any  gaiety  to  eclipse,  which,  sir,  1  deny—" 

Prove  Johnson  Wrong  for  Once 

Prove  Johnson  wrong  for  once  at  the  Stndent's  Union  and  in  your 
other  societies.  T  much  regret  that  there  was  no  Student's  Union  at 
Edinburgh  in  my  time.  1  hope  you  are  fairly  noisy  and  that  members 
are  sometimes  led  out.  Don't  forget  to  speak  scornfully  of  the  Victorian 
age ;  there  will  be  lots  of  time  to  repent  when  you  know  it  better.  Very 
soon  you  will  be  Victorian  or  that  sort  of  things  yourself;  next  session, 
probably,  when  the  freshmen  come  up.  Make  merry  while  you  may.  Yet 
light-heartedness  is  not  for  ever  and  a  day.  "You  seize  the  flower,  its 
bloom  is  shed."  At  its  best  it  is  the  gay  companion  of  innocence;  and 
when  innocence  goes — as  go  it  must — they  soon  trip  off  together,  looking 
for  something  younger.    But  courage  comes  all  the  way — 

"Fight   on.   my  men,"   says  Sir  xVndrew   Barton, 

"I  am   hurt,   Imt    I   am   not  slaine, 
I'll   lie   me   down    and   bleed   awhile, 

And  then  I'll   rise  and   fig'ht  againe." 

Another  piece  of  advice — almost  my  last — for  reasons  you  may  guess  1 
must  give  this  in  a  low  voice.  Beware  of  McConnaehie.  When  I  look 
in  a  mirror  now  it  is  his  face  I  see.  I  speak  with  his  voice,  and  you  all 
know  now  what  a  voice  it  is.  1  once  had  a  voice  of  my  own,  but  nowadays 
r  hear  it  only  from  far  away,  a  melancholy,  lonely,  lost  little  pipe.  I 
wanted  to  be  an  explorer,  but  he  willed  otherwise.  You  will  all  have 
your  McConnachies  luring  you  off  the  high  road.  Unless  you  are  con- 
stantly on  the  watch  you  will  find  that  he  has  slowly  pushed  you  out  of 
yourself  and  taken  your  place.  He  has  rather  done  for  me.  I  think  in 
his  youth  he  must  somehow  have  guessed  the  future  and  been  fleggit  by 
it — flichtered  from  the  nest  like  a  bird — and  so  our  eggs  were  left  cold. 
He  has  clung  to  me,  less  from  mischief  than  for  companionship.  I  half 
like  him  and  his  penny  whistle.  With  all  his  faults  he  is  as  Scotch  as 
peat.  He  whispered  to  me  just  now  that  you  elected  him,  not  me,  as  your  •*. 
rector. 

A  Chosen  Hour 

A  final  passing  thought.  Were  an  old  student  given  an  hour  in 
Avhich  to  revisit  the  St.  Andrews  of  his  day,  would  he  spend  more  than 

Page  21 


Sir  James  M.   Barriers 


half  of  it  at  Iccturos?  He  is  inon-  likely  to  be  heard  clattering  up  bare 
atairs  in  searcli  of  old  coinpanions.  lint  it"  you  coidd  choose  your 
hour  from  all  the  live  hundred  yeai's  of  this  seat  of  learning,  wander- 
ing at  your  will  fiom  one  age  to  another,  how  would  you  spend  it? 
A  fascinating  theme;  so  uuuiy  notable  shades  at  once  astir  that  St. 
Leonards  and  St.  Mary's  grow  murky  with  them.  Hamilton,  Melville, 
Sharpe,  Chalmers,  down  to  llerkUss,  that  distinguished  Principal,  ripe 
scbolar  and  warm  friend,  the  loss  of  whom  1  deeply  deplore  with  you. 
I  think  if  that  hour  were  mine,  and  though  at  St.  Andrews  he  was 
but  a  i)asser-by,  1  would  give  a  handsome  part  of  it  to  a  Avalk  with 
Doctor  Johnson.  1  should  like  1o  have  the  time  of  day  passed  to 
me  in  twelve  languages  by  the  Admirable  Ch-ichton.  A  Avave  of  the 
hand  to  Andrew  Lang;  and  then  for  the  archery  butts  with  the  gay 
Montrose,  all  a-rufifled  and  ringed,  and  in  the  gallant  St.  Andrews' 
student  manner,  continued  as  I  understand  to  this  day,  scattering 
largess  as  he  rides  along. 

But  where  is  now  the  courtly  troupe 
That  once  went   riding  il)y? 
I   miss   the   curls   of   Canteloupe, 
The  laugh  of  Lady  Di. 

We  have  still  left  time  for  a  visit  to  a  house  in  South-street,  hard 
by  St.  Leonards,  T  don't  mean  the  house  you  mean.  I  am  a  Knox 
man.  But  little  will  that  avail,  for  McConnachie  is  a  Queen  Mary 
man.  So,  after  all,  it  is  at  her  door  we  chap,  a  last  futile  etfort  to 
bring  that  woman  to  heel.  One  more  house  of  call,  a  student's  room, 
also  in  South-street.  I  think  No.  1)1.  J  have  chosen  my  student,  you 
see,  and  I  have  chosen  well;  him  that  sang: 

Life  has  not  since  been  vvlinlly  vain 
And   now   I  bear 
Of  wisdom  plucked  from  jny  ;ind   jiaiii 
Some  slender  share. 

But   howsoever    rich    the    store, 

I'd  lay  it  down, 
To   feel   upon  my  back  once  more 

The  old  red   gown. 

Fighl  on  Till  the  Whistle  Blows 

Well,  we  have  at  last  come  to  an  end.  Some  of  you  may  remember 
when  T  began  this  address;  we  are  all  older  now.  I  thank  you  for  your 
patience.    This  is  my  first  and  last  public  appearance,  and  I  never  could 

Page  22 


J 


Challenge  to  Youth 


or  would  have  made  it,  except  to  a  gathering  of  Scottish  students.  If  I 
have  concealed  my  emotions  in  addressing  you,  it  is  only  the  thraun  na- 
tional way  that  deceives  everybody  except  Scotsmen.  I  have  not  been 
as  dull  as  I  could  have  wished  to  be ;  but,  looking  at  your  glowing  faces, 
cheerfulness  and  hope  would  keep  breaking  tlirougli.  Despite  the  imper- 
fections of  your  Betters  we  leave  you  a  great  inheritance,  for  which 
others  will  one  day  call  you  to  account.  You  come  of  a  race  of  men  the 
very  wind  of  whose  name  has  swept  to  the  ultimate  seas.    Remember 

Heaven  doth  witli   us  as  we  with   torches  do, 
Not  light  them  for  ourselves     . 

Mighty  are  the  universities  of  Scotland,  and  they  will  prevail.  But  even 
in  your  highest  exultations  never  forget  that  they  are  not  four  but  five. 
The  greatest  of  them  is  the  poor  proud  homes  you  come  out  of,  which 
said  so  long  ago:  "There  shall  be  education  in  this  land."  She,  not  St. 
Andrews,  is  the  oldest  university  in  Scotland,  and  all  the  others  are  her 
whelps. 

In  bidding  you  good-by,  my  last  words  must  be  of  the  lovely  virtue. 
Courage,  my  children,  and  "greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer."  "Fight  on, 
my  men,"  said  Sir  Andrew  Barton.  Fight  ou^you^for  the  old  red 
sr.o.wn  till  the  whistle  blows. 


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